


Unsubstantiated Supposition

by appleschnapple



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/F, M/M, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-09
Updated: 2014-11-09
Packaged: 2018-02-08 03:12:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 13,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1924545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/appleschnapple/pseuds/appleschnapple
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everything bashed out prior to the release of Inquisition and almost certainly way off base.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. "Please listen to me."

“Please, _listen_ to me,” Adaar said, trying hard to remain upright and with his dignity intact. This was a slightly harder feat than usual, and courtesy of several pints of... something. He and the Bull were the only ones remaining – the others having given up for the night or been dragged away by their more sober companions – and was really quite irritated to see that of the two he was the one worse for wear. “You have got to start wearing more armour on the battlefield. You've got to.”

 

He tried to take another sip of his drink, spilt most of it down his front, and gave it up as a lost cause. With any luck the Iron Bull wouldn't have noticed.

 

(He had, of course. Bastard.)

 

“I'm not getting hurt any more than anyone else out there,” Bull said fairly – and worse, without any slurring. Adaar had passed that point hours ago. “Everyone gets scratched up. I'm just saving coin on equipment.”

 

“I'm not talking about...” Adaar gritted his teeth in preparation for a word that was not going to come out without a fight, “ _practicality_ , or anything. Just saying that you've got to stop... s'distracting,” he finished, the last word more or less a mumble.

 

“You're drunk,” said Bull, with the keen perception of a Qunari spy. He took another swig from his tankard, and Adaar thought he noticed just a bit of a sway as he did so. (Though there was the distinct possibility that that was all him.)

 

“And you're distracting,” Adaar repeated, more clearly this time. “With your... chest. And back.”

 

“My back is distracting?”

 

“Don't act like you don't know it,” Adaar said severely. “You're endangering our mission.”

 

“With my back.”

 

“And your front.” It was important not to do the front a disservice. The front had so many wonderful qualities as well. “Distracting.”

 

“Right.” The Iron Bull got to his feet, with a slight stagger that Adaar was almost certain he hadn't imagined. “So, how about we call it a night?”

 

Adaar stared at his still half-full tankard. He was sure there was a reason he'd drank so much to begin with, but couldn't for the life of him remember what it was. “Well, if you're giving up already...”

 

“Yes, it would seem so.” Bull leaned slightly on the table for support – the table, in return, gave a creak of protest. “I might need some assistance getting to my room, in fact.”

 

“Lightweight,” Adaar said, getting to his own feet on slightly shaky legs, and wrapping one arm around Bull's shoulders. It did seem like Bull was taking more of _his_ weight than vice versa, but obviously that was just testament to his incredible strength. Obviously.

 

\---

 

The next day – in the afternoon, after everyone had finished either feeling sorry for themselves or laughing at those who did – Adaar sent word out that they were to do a sweep of the immediate area. It wasn't really of utmost importance, and he didn't expect to find much, but it was something that he could contemplate doing without his head attempting to split in two, and doing nothing would draw Cassandra's wrath. He wasn't a coward, but he _did_ have common sense.

 

It should have been fairly straight forward – had he not been met with a most unfortunate surprise. The Iron Bull, decked in armour that he'd somehow squeezed himself into and that covered everything past his neck. Even his hands – which Adaar would absolutely deny staring at (and wondering about), ever – were hidden in a huge pair of gauntlets.

 

It was sensible, it was practical, and Adaar thought that in his sensitive, hungover state he actually might shed a tear.

 

“I took your advice to heart,” Bull explained, as though this excused the torment he was putting him through. “Wouldn't want to _endanger the mission_.”

 

“Well.” Adaar cleared his throat, and made a point of avoiding the Iron Bull's eyes – a difficult feat, considering that normally he was the only one at his eye level – as he continued, “It's possible I was a little... hasty. I'm sure your normal armour provides a certain... moveability, and, uh...”

 

“Boosts the team morale,” Sera added helpfully. “I mean, I'm guessing.”

 

“If it would be in the best interests of the group...” Bull began, his visible eye wide and at least attempting innocence, “...I _suppose_ I can go change.”

 

“Yes.” Adaar turned away, staring at a tree some way in the distance. Trees were wonderful. Trees didn't leave him feeling tongue-tied and embarrassed and as though his priorities were truly, _terribly_ messed up. “I think that would be for the best.”

 

He remained facing away until the Iron Bull's footsteps faded into the distance – distinctive as they were – and then and only then met Sera's gaze. “Don't say anything and I'll buy you something nice.”

 

Sera grinned toothily, and Adaar was quite sure he was going to have to justify some ridiculous expenditure in the near future.

 

It was probably worth it.


	2. "Can we pretend I didn’t just say that?"

Adaar liked to imagine a world where he was the perfect, charismatic leader that by all rights he really ought to be. (He also liked to imagine a world which didn't appear to be coming to an untimely end and him the only person who could possibly stop it from happening, but he'd settle for the charismatic leader thing.)

 

Instead, he got to be the one last hope of Thedas (really, it was enough to leave him big-headed) _and_ just about capable of putting one word in front of the other without humiliating himself. Just about.

 

To make unjust matters even more unfair, he was surrounded by people more competent and more eloquent than him, and was _ever_ so helpfully reminded by Varric (on almost a daily basis) that the Champion of Kirkwall was better than him in more or less every possible way.

 

Really, it was quite tempting to run away and live out the rest of his days in quiet solitude in a cave somewhere – however few that number of days might be. (This plan was somewhat hampered by Cassandra, who was – if not his moral compass – then at least a swift kick up the backside when he needed it. He needed it more often than he'd care to admit.)

 

What was really, truly, the most _undeniably_ unfair part about the whole thing was that the Iron Bull – who should have been, by all rights, a stern, solemn, imposing figure – was possibly the most charming of all the people the Inquisition had acquired. When he spoke, people listened. When he made a joke, people laughed. When he smiled, people didn't suddenly become very, very uncomfortable.

 

(And then people wondered _why_ Adaar was so ill-tempered.)

 

Really, Adaar would have been quite within his rights to dislike the Iron Bull just for that. It just turned out that Bull's charm really was universal – or near enough to as to make no difference.

 

This was especially true when you had a flesh wound that wasn't mortal but _was_ bloody inconvenient, no mages on hand, no potions on hand (though that one was probably his fault) and were bulky enough that the Iron Bull was probably the only one capable of supporting your weight. (Cassandra would probably have given it a damn good go, though.)

 

“Spears. Who throws spears?” he said irritably, and for perhaps the third time in the past ten minutes. He was also bleeding profusely from a wound in his thigh, so he figured he was quite justified in doing so. “They're so... unwieldy. And unnecessary.”

 

“And yet you still managed to get hit by one,” Sera pointed out, because she was the worst. “What does that say about you then?”

 

“That I have no patience for unnecessary things?” he shot back, with just a hint of a growl. Sera wasn't cowed easily though, and just smirked at him, quickening her pace slightly to catch up with Varric in front.

 

“Ugh.”

 

“Bad day?” Bull asked conversationally, and Adaar could practically feel his eyes trying to roll out of his head.

 

“No,” he said sourly, “this is exactly how I wanted to spend my day. I woke up this morning and thought, _what could possibly make a day spent stomping through the marshes better?_ ”

 

“At least it only comes up to your bleeding knees!” Sera shouted back at him, while Varric – for whom the water came to near chest height – gave a rude hand gesture without bothering to turn round.

 

Adaar didn't bother to respond, just hissed as a stab of pain ran down his leg – and then had to resist the urge to snap as the Iron Bull shifted to shoulder yet more of his weight. “Yes, today's going brilliantly. Whatever will tomorrow bring to top this?”

 

This time Varric did turn around, and it gave Adaar a bleak sense of satisfaction to see that at least someone was having about as good a time of it as he was. “Whatever happens tomorrow I'm blaming you for. Just so you know,” Varric said grimly, and shook his head. He turned away once more, making his next words hard to make out – but it sounded a little like 'bunch of amateurs.' Given the swift punch to the arm Sera delivered immediately after, he probably wasn't far off.

 

“Next time, I'm bringing mages. _All_ of the mages.”

 

Bull snorted. “Because there's no way that will end badly.”

 

Adaar considered exactly what 'all of the mages' would entail. All fine, (relatively) upstanding people in their own right, but together... “Some of the mages. Or maybe just the one. Maybe Vivienne.”

 

The marsh squelched with each step they took.

 

“Maybe not Vivienne.”

 

Another squelch, and a premonition of pristine white robes becoming considerably less so.

 

“Or Dorian. Solas, then.”

 

Bull made a non-committal noise, and Adaar turned to face him – certainly _not_ leaning any more weight on the other qunari. “You have a problem with Solas?”

 

“Not with him personally, just... the way he dresses.”

 

Adaar squinted. “Why Vivienne, I almost didn't recognise you.”

 

“I mean the colours. If he got knocked out around here we'd never find him again.”

 

Adaar had to admit that he had a point. In fact, it was almost remarkable how closely the muddy greens and greys of the bog matched Solas' usual ensemble, and for the first time he was wondering if Vivienne wasn't _entirely_ unjustified in her complaints. “So what you're saying is that none of our mages are suited for this terrain.”

 

Ahead, Varric slipped and went over head over heels, landing with an even louder squelch and, moments later, an undignified _bloop_.

 

“Nobody's suited for this,” Bull remarked, trying – and doing an admirable, if not particularly successful – not to laugh at Varric's misfortune. (Several yards ahead Sera was showing no such restraint even as she plunged a hand in to help drag him out.)

 

\--- 

 

“You know, this is just my unprofessional opinion here, but you... aren't looking too good,” Varric said, staring up (and then further up) at him with a critical eye.

 

“I got speared,” Adaar ground out, “what's your excuse?”

 

“Inquisitor, please. That leg wound is making you irritable and tell hurtful falsehoods. Honestly, I'm surprised you can still walk on thing.”

 

As if it had been waiting for such a prompt, the leg buckled under him. Had the Iron Bull already not been near enough carrying him it probably would have ended badly.

 

“Can you just piggyback him the rest of the way?” Sera asked the Iron Bull impatiently. She was ill-suited for walking slowly, and their pace had gotten progressively slower and slower until it was only slightly brisker than a crawl. At this rate they wouldn't be back at the Keep until nightfall, and Adaar could understand her frustration even if he didn't appreciate it. “I mean, I know he's big and everything but you're _massive_.”

 

The Iron Bull preened a little, and Sera leaned in closer to Adaar, gazing up at him with big, beseeching (fooling absolutely no-one) eyes.

 

“Ride the Bull, ride the Bull...” she chanted – and seemed only a little put out that no-one else was joining in.

 

“I have no desire to _ride the Bull_ like that,” he said flatly – and it wasn't until an almost deathly silence fell over them (even the rustles and chirps of animals in the distance seemed to fade away) that he realised that hadn't come out quite as he had intended. With some of the others he might have been able to play it off. With this bunch...

 

Sera looked as though all her Satinalias had come at once. She seemed almost hesitant to speak up – as if doing so might ruin the moment forever. It did not last long. “ _Like that_?”

 

“No,” moaned Adaar, “no, no, no...”

 

“As in there's some _other_ way you want to ride him?”

 

“Can we pretend I didn't just say that?” Adaar asked, a little desperately. “Maybe even not twisting my words deliberately out of context?”

 

“Nope.”

 

“Nah.”

 

The Iron Bull was (wisely) keeping his mouth shut, but was looking just a little too smug for Adaar's liking.

 

“You're all terrible,” he said flatly. Nobody bothered to protest, and as Bull heaved him up onto his shoulders Adaar couldn't quite find it in himself to do so either. (He could do without the badly stifled laughter though.) “I'm feeding you to the next dragon we come across.”

 

There was a distant roar, and as one they looked up to see a flock of birds scattering in the distance. A handful were caught in the blast of flame that followed soon after.

 

“...the _next_ next dragon.”

 

\---

 

Adaar had been poked at, prodded at, healed... and then prodded at some more. At some point during all this one of the servants had brought up a bottle of Antivan brandy. (She hadn't said who it was from, but he suspected Varric's involvement. After all, he _had_ gotten injured as a result of knocking the dwarf out of harm's way.)

 

No longer losing blood at an alarming rate and with a good half of the bottle down him, he was feeling rather chipper about the whole affair. So he'd inadvertently propositioned someone under his command. Worse things had happened. More to the point, worse things were happening right now, at this very moment – but all that seemed a long way away.

 

As opposed to the Iron Bull, who was standing in his doorway a scant few feet away. “You look better,” he said, not waiting for invitation to come in – though Adaar noticed he'd spent just a moment assessing the width of the doorway. Adaar could sympathise.

 

“How bad did I look before?”

 

“Before or after you passed out?”

 

“...Before.”

 

“You've looked... better,” Bull said slowly, and there was something deliberate in his gaze. Another time Adaar might have been better at deciphering it, but right now he was torn between the urge to crawl into bed and sleep for twelve hours, and the desire to rub his hands all over Bull's bare chest. (The former was winning out, but in his defence it _had_ been a long, difficult day.)

 

(Then again, why should he have to choose?)

 

“Come to bed with me?”

 

Bull laughed, and under other circumstances Adaar might have been offended. (He'd probably be too busy being mortified about what he'd said in the first place, though.) As it was he simply looked on evenly and waited for a response. “I'll pass. But if you still feel that way tomorrow I might be more agreeable.”

 

Adaar nodded. It seemed reasonable enough.

 

He then proceeded to avoid the Iron Bull for the next five days, including one notable incident where he locked himself in a broom cupboard and stayed in there for a good half hour.


	3. "Are you flirting with me?"

The Iron Bull was a friendly person – far more so than Adaar, though he’d been informed this wasn’t particularly hard – even if he wasn’t always a nice one (and it had been something of a shock to Adaar to discover they weren’t exactly one and the same). The Iron Bull was cheery and personable, and shrugged off every joke of Varric’s that was just this side of malicious with a hearty laugh (and if he was feeling slightly vindictive, a short joke). Even Cole, who was… something of a point of contention among his companions (in much the same way that the Veil tears were something of an inconvenience), had found himself taken under Bull’s large, muscular wing.

 

The Iron Bull was also a terrible flirt. (Not terrible in the technical sense – as far as Adaar could tell it tended to be quite well received – but certainly more frequently than he was used to.) And this was fine too – Adaar wasn’t about to tell anyone how to live their life, and Bull always stepped off if he thought his advances were unappreciated.

 

What he _did_ take issue with, and what was slightly annoying and _incredibly_ confusing was when there was overlap between the two. Sera, for instance, had made it abundantly clear that Bull was about as far from her type (physically, at least) as it was possible to be, and yet he was just as flirty with her (last overheard waxing poetic about her freckles) as he was with people who’d shown considerably more interest. There had to be a difference there, but Adaar couldn’t for the life of him identify what, and while he could theoretically ask his companions for advice he also could theoretically walk around Skyhold naked. In his eyes the two would be equally embarrassing. (In fact, the former maybe more so than the latter. Many, many things made him feel awkward and uncomfortable, but he was at least relatively okay with his body. It did what it needed to, and only on occasion chose to betray him.)

 

So when the Iron Bull complimented his horns (“You know what they say about Qunari with curled horns, right? …Right?”) or his battle stance (“You hold that sword like a man who _knows his weapons_ ,”) or once, peculiarly, the size of his feet (making him self-conscious for several days thereafter), he was never quite certain how he was supposed to take it. The subtle arts were quite beyond him - though, if Cassandra’s reaction had been any judge, by most people’s standards the Iron Bull was anything but.

 

Most people were _strange_.

 

The uncertainty of it all was driving him mad, and that was the only explanation he could think of for why he blurted out, “Are you flirting with me?” in front of just about everyone. In the middle of a meeting about – _oh yes_ – pretty much the end of the world as they knew it.

  


Solas knew some strange magic. Maybe there was a spell to make the ground swallow him whole.

 

Even the Iron Bull looked taken aback as silence fell over the hall, broken only by Varric abruptly turning away from the table and marching off, with a low, muttered, “I am _not_ going through this shit again.”

 

Then silence once more.

 

"Well," Adaar began, and frowned. His voice, by nature low and gravelly, didn’t exactly do shrill, but was having a damn good go at it. "I’m just going to… be elsewhere." And, as he should probably at least pretend to maintain some semblance of authority, added, "As you were."

 

\---

 

"Poor thing," said Leliana sympathetically, just as the silence was threatening to overwhelm them. "He’s so easily embarrassed. It would be _adorable_ … were the circumstances not so dire.” Beside her, Schmooples made a very judgmental-sounding snuffle.

 

"Sometimes the knowledge that he is all that stands between us and total destruction keeps me awake at night," Vivienne agreed, giving a thin smile in the face of Leliana’s scowl.

 

Cassandra, meanwhile, was levelling a long-suffering look towards Bull. While she’d probably deny it even at swordpoint she had a soft spot for the Inquisitor, and had circumstances been different theirs would probably have been a love that spanned the ages. As it was their relationship was equally close but thoroughly platonic affair. “Could you please refrain from taunting him?”

 

The Iron Bull was almost offended. “Taunting? He happens to be a fine specimen of Qunari. Not that I’d expect you to notice.”

 

"Then can you _please_ just take him aside and have your way with him?” asked an exasperated Sera, only to be met with several pairs of eyes sending scandalised looks her way. “Or let him have his way with you, or take turns or something,” she added, not unreasonably.

 

"Unless, of course, you intend to wine and dine him first?" Solas said drily.

 

"In which case might I recommend the Aggregio Pavali?" Dorian said, taking a stride away from the table as it became apparent that little was going to get done this evening. "I noticed a bottle of it the other day. It’s a very… _friendly_ wine. Quite toasty.”

 

Vivienne raised one immaculately groomed eyebrow. “Please remember whom you are speaking to.”

 

"Ah. A fair point. Then perhaps the Dragon Piss?"

 

"Eww." Sera pulled a face. "It’s not actually…?"

 

"No."

 

"Debatable."

 

"I would not recommend it," said Blackwall. He scratched absently at his beard. "I’ve drunk worse, though."

 

"I liked it, actually," Bull commented, though he still looked a little taken-aback. "It was… fizzy. Still haven’t decided how I feel about that."

 

This appeared to be the straw that broke the bronto’s back for Cassandra, who stomped out of the room with nothing more than a shake of the head, lips pursed together tightly. If his wide-eyed, incredulous expression was anything to go by, Cullen was moments away from following her out.

 

"Again. Ew."

 

"If we could return to the matter at hand," Cullen said wearily, in a tone he probably hoped sounded more authoritative than it actually did. (Even if it had, the Iron Bull did not take orders from just anyone. He was not one of the Inquisition’s soldiers and he had no inclination to become one.)

 

"You mean Bull tupping the Inquisitor?"

 

"You have such a way with words, Sera," Vivienne remarked. She steepled her fingers, long, perfectly manicured nails interlocking. "If only Varric were here. He could learn so much from you."

 

"I know, I keep telling him so."

 

Dorian took a step toward Bull, hands raised either in an attempt to placate or to give himself a more striking silhouette. “I believe what our young friend,” Sera bristled slightly, “is trying to say, in her own, colourful fashion…”

 

"Either shit or get off the pot."

 

"Quite so."

 

"This order is an embarrassment," Cullen said, a little distantly, a lost look in his eyes. "We’re all going to die."

 

"That’s the spirit," said Blackwall.

 

\---

 

The Iron Bull rapped his knuckles on the door. He tried to do so quietly, but when one’s fists were the size of most people’s faces that tended not to be an option. It didn’t help that the door was an impressive one - large enough that Adaar didn’t have face the indignity of ducking his head every time he went in or out. (Bull did have to stoop slightly, but there were few doors in this country where he _didn’t_ have that problem.)

 

"Come in?" (Much like Cullen, Adaar seemed to sometimes have difficulty making an order not sound like a suggestion.) And as Bull entered, "Oh, it’s you."

 

"You couldn’t tell?"

 

"Have you ever heard Cassandra knocking? Some days I fear for the hinges."

 

"Ah. Of course."

 

Bull shifted his weight slightly, faced with Adaar’s unwavering stare and wishing against all reason he was wearing more armour. It wouldn’t help much – when Adaar was so inclined his gaze could pierce silverite.

 

"Not that this isn’t lovely," Adaar said, without a trace of irony, "but if we’re just going to stand in silence… I was actually doing that before you came in."

 

"Standing?"

 

"Well, no. Sitting. My leg tends to hurt when the weather gets like this." He rubbed at the offending appendage and failing to hide his wince. As if to further emphasise his point there was a distant rumble of thunder.

 

Bull gestured at a large, comfortable-looking chair by the fireplace, and was met with a scowl.

 

"I’ll stand, if it’s all the same to you. And assuming you are here for a reason." Understandable. Bull himself hated showing weakness in front of his mercenaries (or anyone, really).

 

"I can’t just come in to say hello?"

 

If anything the scowl grew more pronounced. “Hello. Goodbye.”

 

Perhaps if he’d been a more expressive person (and not part of the Qun, wherein even a small smile was a barefaced show of affection and by now he’d be considered almost shamefully emotive) Bull might have chewed his lip, or rubbed at his arm, or given some indication of how uncomfortable this situation was. Or perhaps not.

 

He grinned. “I suppose you’re quite proud of yourself for that one.”

 

"Quite."

 

"And yes."

 

Adaar’s eyebrows shot up. “Sorry?”

 

"Yes, I _was_ flirting with you.”

 

There was a portrait of the Inquisitor in the main hall – more of an artist’s interpretation than anything, as there had been no convincing Adaar to stay still for that long. It was still a good likeness, capturing his usual stern expression with impressive accuracy. (The horns were a little off, but Bull supposed the artist was more accustomed to painting nobles and trying to make them look as attractive as possible while still being recognisable.)

 

The Iron Bull would have given anything for the artist to have captured this look instead. Adaar’s complexion was darker than his own, but there was a definite reddish tinge to his cheeks and the tips of his ears. His mouth was hanging slightly agape, his eyes open wide. He looked rather as though he’d just been punched, the air knocked right out of his lungs.

 

Bull was willing to take that as a compliment.

 

Adaar took a deep breath, trying (and not quite succeeding) to compose himself. “All right. That’s… all right.”

 

Then Bull found himself with a hand at the back of his neck, another cupping his chin, being dragged into what was, if not the best kiss in the world (or even a particularly good one) at least one not lacking in enthusiasm.

 

A little brief though. Adaar pulled back, looking alarmed once more. “Sorry. Sorry. Was that…?”

 

”’ _All right_ ’?” Bull asked.

 

"Shut up."

 

The Iron Bull gladly obliged.

 

\---

 

"So. Details, details," Varric said at breakfast. They all ate together, in what was theoretically a way of building trust, morale and camaraderie. Bull had been involved in far too many battles for the last sausage or strip of bacon and to put much stock in that, however.

 

"You ‘re asking me?"

 

"What, you think I’m going to ask him? I think it’d actually be easier to get blood from a stone."

 

He had a point. Adaar was sat at the head of the table, listening fixedly with the occasional nod at whatever Cassandra had to say, and pointedly ignoring Sera’s leer.

 

"Aren’t you _done with this shit_?” he asked instead, in what was a passable imitation of Varric (even if it didn’t look as though he agreed).

 

"Hey, a dwarf’s got to get his kicks somewhere. And I’m feeling nostalgic this morning."

 

"You? Nostalgic? Surely not," Vivienne said mildly, reaching across for the teapot. Bull snorted, and Varric threw an irritated look her way. "You really must be quieter, dear."

 

"Or you could stop eavesdropping."

 

She gave a slightly wan smile. “Hmm. No. I don’t think I shall.” Varric rolled his eyes as she continued, “You and the Inquisitor, then? I must say I’m intrigued.”

 

"Jealous?"

 

This time it was Vivienne who looked sorely tempted to roll her eyes – but of course would refrain from such an unnecessary display. “Of course. It wounds me to know that our love will never be.”

 

"If it makes you feel better, know that your horns are far more impressive."

 

The sides of Vivienne’s mouth twitched ever so slightly. “That is comforting.”

 

Varric got to his feet. “Nope, I was right the first time. I’ll just say the Inquisitor spent his days in quiet solitude or something. Noble self-sacrifice and whatnot. People will lap it up.”

 

Bull picked up the cup of tea Vivienne had poured for him, taking utmost care not to snap the delicate handle, and took a sip (that was really more of a slurp, in spite of Vivienne’s best efforts to teach him good table manners). “He wasn’t alone last night.”

 

Cullen, sat opposite him and having spent the entire meal with his eyes facing downwards, looked up at last. Dark circles rimmed his eyes, and his gaze seemed slightly unfocused. When he spoke, his voice came out raw and scratchy. “He also wasn’t quiet.”

 

They were the Inquisition. They shouldn’t laugh. It was beneath them to laugh.

 

They did so anyway.

 

 


	4. "Stop trying to cheer me up!"

Adaar stared at his hand. By most people's standards this behaviour may have come across as slightly unusual (or _eccentric_ , the word usually reserved for the wealthy and/or powerful), but as most people _didn't_ have glowing green fade tears on their hand they were not in any position to judge.

 

And in any case, his hand _hurt_ , and it was leaving him in a less than generous mood. It wasn't his sword arm, thank goodness - his leadership skills were called into question often enough that he couldn't deal with doubts surrounding his combat abilities as well - but it toed the dangerous line between an inconvenience and a vulnerability.

 

He didn't mind being a slight disappointment to the Inquisition, happy to let Cassandra take the burden of responsibility when he could not. He could not handle being a liability.

 

There was the sound of the door swinging open behind him. "Good evening, Bull," he said, safe in the knowledge that the Iron Bull was the only person in Skyhold barging in without knocking. (Unless they were under attack, and wouldn't he look the fool if that were the case.) "Sorry, but I'm not sure I'm in the mood for..." he turned around, to be met with _yes_ , Bull, but also a slightly awkward-looking Dorian.

 

Dorian looking awkward suited him about as well as looking suave and sophisticated suited Adaar, and made it seem as though there was something terribly wrong with the world. (Which was technically the case, but until this moment had not had such a bearing on Dorian's demeanour.)

 

"May I help you both with something?" he asked, trying to sound less wary than he felt. A thought struck him. "You don't need me to act as mediator, do you? Because I warn you, last time that did not end well." (Josephine had taken him aside and said, quite kindly, that perhaps she ought to handle those kinds of conflicts in the future. Adaar had shown his gratitude by being a little less spendthrift in the weeks that followed.)

 

Bull folded his arms and shot him an offended look. "Whatever for? Dorian and I are the best of friends."

 

"I thought you were closest with Vivienne. Both of you, actually."

 

"Well," Bull said slowly, "perhaps don't tell her I said that. Wouldn't want any hurt feelings."

 

Dorian laughed, the creases in his brow smoothing out, and it seemed to Adaar that all was right with the world. (It wasn't, of course, but it at least gave him comfort to know that not everything was as messed up as the gaping green holes in the sky.) "Forgive me, but I think it would take far more than that to hurt dear Vivienne's feelings. She is... not exactly the sensitive type."

 

Adaar wasn't quite sure about that - Vivienne was certainly softer than first impressions might suggest - but it wasn't exactly a pressing issue. Meanwhile... "So what is the problem if not some huge and deeply unpleasant conflict of beliefs? If this is just a social call I think I must point out that I have paperwork to do."

 

Dorian cleared his throat, and gestured pointedly towards the desk. It was a fine thing, carved from iron bark and engraved with a complicated swirling design. Very little of the design could be seen at present, hidden underneath a stack of letters (and other miscellaneous items that Adaar was sure had been important at one point or another, but had absolutely no use for now). "It seems you're well under way there."

 

Adaar had to decency to look a little chastened. "It's giving me a headache just looking at it," he said.

 

"And that is why we are here," Bull said, and with a sweep of his arm (and one massive hand) knocked the paperwork clean off of the desk.

 

Adaar stared at him, and Dorian suddenly looked as thought he'd rather be elsewhere.

 

"That was a spur of the moment thing and I immediately regret it," Bull admitted.

 

"You don't say," said Dorian. Adaar was too busy stuck staring in horror at the pile of rolled up parchment and sheets of vellum at his feet. A bottle of ink had been smashed in the process, and a small, black pool was quickly spreading towards his feet. Several important looking documents had already drowned in its wake.

 

"Really though, you shouldn't have let it get to that state in the first place."

 

"Bull," Dorian said sharply, "you are really not helping matters here."

 

The tips of Adaar's (once) brown boots had been stained. Vivienne (who had picked them out for him personally and come up with some impressive and creative threats should he choose not to wear them) would be horrified. (Adaar himself couldn't really care less, but the importance of appearances had been stressed to him on numerous occasions, and as such he suspected that there might just be something to it. He also suspected that this was not a good look for him.)

 

"Why are you here?" he asked, finally taking some initiative and throwing down a rag to halt the onslaught of ink. (It was too late for the boots, but he would not let his trousers fall the same way.) "Aside from making my life just that little bit harder."

 

"Ironically, this visit was supposed to make you feel better," Dorian replied. He'd gotten out of the way of the mess with remarkable speed – _his_ clothes were as immaculate as ever. Of course. "I can see why this may come as a surprise."

 

"Then can you _stop_ trying to cheer me up?” Both men shook their heads. “Very well then. Were you were planning on taking me out drinking or something? Perhaps another game of Wicked Grace? Because I'm not sure if you've noticed, but I have a great many things to be done and--"

 

"-- _That_ is why we came," Bull cut in, resting his hand on Adaar's shoulder. He stiffened with the touch, and then relaxed under it a moment later. No matter how irritating the Iron Bull might be at times, he could also be an immensely comforting presence. Already Adaar was finding it difficult to stay angry.

 

"We've noticed you looking rather drawn recently..."

 

"And how you look at your hand whenever you think nobody's looking."

 

Almost as reflex his eyes glanced down at the familiar glow before snapping up again. "I don't do that."

 

"And while I can only assume what a comforting... presence Bull provides..."

 

Bull smirked. "We thought it might be an idea to... thank you for your hard work."

 

“Thank me?”

 

"Tada!" the Iron Bull said, waving both hands towards Dorian.

 

"...What?" Adaar would be among the first to admit that he sometimes couldn't keep up in conversation – especially ones with layers upon layers of subtlety and snide jabs (and listening in on Vivienne and Dorian gave him a headache) – but he was at least reasonably sure that even someone slightly more comfortable with words would have had difficulty following this articular one.

 

Dorian at least seemed equally unimpressed. " _Tada_? Really? Truly? That is how you're proposing this?"

 

"Would you have preferred a fanfare?"

 

"I'd have _preferred_..."

 

Adaar pinched at his brow, trying to sooth the mounting pressure there. "Speak plainly, please."

 

Bull raised his arms as if making a grand, magnanimous gesture. "You, me, him," he pointed at Dorian, "your bed."

 

"My... bed?"

 

"I'm led to believe it's the biggest in the Keep," Dorian explained, albeit in a way that did absolutely _nothing_ to clarify matters for Adaar. "Which I think is understandable, but Bull thinks is a blatant show of favouritism."

 

"I'm the biggest one here, it makes sense that..."

 

" _Please_ ," Adaar said again, sharply this time, "can the two of you assume that I'm a fool who is not following this conversation even slightly and just _speak plainly_?"

 

"Sex," Dorian said. His eyebrow twitched slightly, as if itching to be raised. "Between you, Bull and myself. Bull has led me to believe that you are quite familiar with the concept."

 

"Oh." Adaar could feel the blood rushing to his cheeks (and in spite of everything at least some heading further south). "That's... ah... how?"

 

"I believe we're leaving that in Bull’s capable hands," Dorian explained, while the Iron Bull gave a small bow, looking rather pleased with himself. "That is making the possibly erroneous assumption that you're up for it. If you're not, I will of course take my leave."

 

"That's... this is... yes?" His voice had cracked slightly, and he gave a small cough. "Yes, that sounds... yes."

 

"You have such a way with words. It's almost overwhelming," Dorian remarked, stepping delicately over the mess on the floor to lock the door. Adaar had been refraining from doing so recently – people had come knocking on his door so often that it was getting to be more trouble than it was worth to have to get up each time to open it. (Within reason. By and large he had a rule of his room being solely his own late at night [with the Iron Bull as his frequent guest] and anyone barging that was likely to see far more of their Inquisitor than they'd care to.) "I'm hoping that's not why Bull is so fond of you."

 

"I'm just using him for his body. Have you _seen_ it?" Bull asked, one hand slinking downwards towards Adaar's waist and pulling him in closer.

 

"I have noticed." Satisfied they would not be disturbed unless Cassandra chose to break the door down – and in the circumstances that would necessitate that Adaar could probably forgive her – Dorian headed back over to them, and gave the Bull an expectant look. "I'm assuming you have some sort of plan of action? You usually do."

 

Bull shrugged. "Outside the battlefield I prefer to improvise."

 

"He's good at it," added Adaar, whose mouth was doing that 'speaking without first consulting his brain' thing. It was becoming a tragically regular occurrence. "At least, as far as I can tell, I don't really have a huge basis for comparison..."

 

"Couldn't have just stuck to that first part, could you?"

 

"Well then," Dorian said, beginning to undo the ties on his clothes – and oh, Adaar had wondered how all that fit together, "I suppose I shall have to see for myself first hand."

 

\---

 

Adaar's bed may have been the largest in Skyhold, but it was currently occupied to near capacity. (Either the bed had not been designed with orgies in mind, or said orgies were not expected to have Qunari participants. ...And thus it had certainly _not_ been designed with the Iron Bull in mind.) He was pinned down by the combined weight of a sleeping Bull and Dorian (more so the former than the latter) and had a dead arm (courtesy of the Iron Bull pressed against his left-hand side and snoring loudly) and an uncomfortably full bladder... and nevertheless was feeling more content than he had in quite a long time.

 

_Dorian was considerably slighter than Adaar – and practically waifish compared with Bull – and his initial touches – skin smoother than he was used to, less wear and tear – were gentle, hesitant, until Dorian rolled his eyes and grabbed him by the wrists. "I won't break," he said. Adaar could feel Bull chuckling behind him as he stripped them both of armour, hands more nimble than one might expect._

 

Dorian's moustache – more dishevelled than Adaar had ever seen it – twitched with every slow, rhythmic breath, and he had to fight the urge to giggle. Which was utterly ridiculous. He did _not_ giggle.

 

(There had been that one time, but Sera had sworn to secrecy and been bribed with a new bow for good measure.)

 

_What had started off awkward and stilted (and a fair representation of Adaar attempting just about anything, ever) had gained a sense of synchrony – hips rocking in time and guided by helpful and firm hands, hot breath against his neck and whispered words of encouragement._

 

Bull rolled over in his sleep, a slow, deliberate movement seemingly developed to give his bed partner(s) sufficient time to get out of harm's way. With Dorian on his other side and already dangerously close to the edge moving aside was hardly an option, so instead Adaar took the blow with good grace (and a slight wheeze), and resigned himself to suffocation.

 

 _He loved the noises Bull made – an already deep voice even lower and more gravelly telling him 'Yes, that's it...' – and knowing that no matter how many others had heard that tone (and how many more might hear it in the future), in that moment those words were just for him. Dorian's noises were different, of course, but no less enjoyable. Breathy hisses and quiet, low moans – and surprisingly non-verbal, for all of his usual eloquence. They might not have been_ just _for him – Bull knew what he was doing far better than Adaar did – but they were for him, nonetheless._

 

After a few minutes (or at least he thought that long; it was hard to judge with just his thoughts to pass the time) Dorian followed suit, turning over and burrowing his face against Adaar's neck. The bristles of his moustache (and traces of stubble along his jaw) tickled the bare skin.

 

_They were sprawled in a sweaty, undignified heap; Adaar and Dorian propped up against the Iron Bull's bulk. Dorian was breathing heavily, Bull looking entirely too happy by half and Adaar with the sneaking suspicion that his legs weren't going to be of much use for a while._

 

 _"He's_ limber _," Bull murmured, elbowing Adaar lightly (at least by his standards, which was to say that it would only inflict_ _light_ _ _bruising__ _) in the ribs. "Flexible. Remind me why I'm wasting my time with you again?"_

 

_Adaar closed his eyes and leaned back further, putting just a little more pressure on Bull. "I've always assumed it had something to do with my excellent people skills."_

 

 _He felt Dorian shift slightly. "Was that a joke? Did the_ Inquisitor _just make a joke?"_

 

_"He does that from time to time," Bull said proudly. "But tell no-one."_

 

_"Nobody would believe you," added Adaar. He wrapped an arm around Bull's shoulders, and opened one bleary eye with which to look at him. "Be a dear and carry me to bed, all you?"_

 

_Dorian was actually starting to look alarmed – if in an extremely sedate, sleepy sort of way. "Is this real? Am I... Is this the Fade? Should I expect Solas to pop out any moment now?" He yawned. "Actually, I'm not sure I care. Bed sounds like an excellent idea." He stood, and had made one step towards his (immaculately folded) pile of clothes before Adaar snatched at his arm._

 

_"You should stay... I mean, if you want, of course."_

 

_Dorian smiled, faint lines around his eyes creasing and his gaze soft. "It would be rude of me to refuse such an offer, then."_

 

Adaar's eyelids were heavy, his head even more so. He cast one last look at the back of his hand, bathing them all in a faint greens light, and gave an inward shrug. It would wait until morning.

 

\---

 

"He looks... peaceful," Dorian said quietly, watching Adaar's sleeping form with polite interest. "I don't believe I've ever seen him like this before. You have, I imagine.”

 

Bull made an indeterminate noise at the back of his throat. He had a good sense for detecting trouble on the horizon, and he could tell this was dangerously approaching _feelings_ territory.

 

Far from being dissuaded, Dorian _smirked_ at him. "The two of you are good together."

 

"It's just a distraction until Vivienne finally gives in to my advances," he said blithely, very pointedly looking away from the smug look being directed his way.

 

"Which is only a matter of time, I'm sure." Dorian clapped a companionable hand on his shoulder. "And I'm sure when that day comes you won't mind if I swoop in and snatch up our dear Inquisitor to comfort him in his time of need."

 

To a casual observer it might have looked as though he was baring his teeth at Dorian. Obviously this was not the case. It was just how he smiled.

 

Really.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Tentatively changing the rating on this to M because I find it impossible not to err on the side of caution.)


	5. Cheiloproclitic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cheiloproclitic - Being attracted to someone’s lips.

Adaar is quite certain he pays more attention to the Iron Bull’s mouth than is strictly appropriate. (This of course raises the question of how much attention _is_ appropriate, and all he can assume is… less than he shows.) And it’s peculiar, because it’s not as though there’s any shortage of other things to catch his eye in the vicinity – he could be staring at the scar running along Cassandra’s jaw, or the slim glimpse of shoulder beneath Dorian’s robes, the softening of Vivienne’s gaze when she thought nobody was watching – all of which were very appealing. Instead, and despite his best efforts to the contrary, he stares at Bull.

 

Bull, much like the rest of them, has no shortage of scars. There’s one either side of his top lip – one short and deep, the other longer and fainter, and if Adaar was so bold (if he ever _could_ be so bold) he’d run his thumb over each and memorise them through touch.

 

If he was so bold he’d probably stop staring and do something more fruitful with his time, though, and Adaar’s gotten to where he stands now by caution and careful strategy, in spite of complaints from some of the Valos-Kas. (Complaints that ceased after his plans worked time and again, but complaints nevertheless.) He’s already in far over his head – there’s no need to compromise the uneasy balance the Inquisition has created by giving in to a wild urge. Instead he spares brief glances and sideways looks and thinks about uneven stubble and lips split more often than not.

 

\---

 

The Iron Bull is unapologetic in most things (or at least seems that way to passers-by, which is the most important part) and is completely unapologetic in his appreciation for the Inquisitor. They may bump heads (and horns) on occasion, but he respects the man. (Even if he is part of the _Valos-Kas_ , and Bull plans never to stop ribbing him about that.)

 

He also recognises the Inquisitor is really quite easy on the eyes, and that it’s his good fortune (and Adaar’s sheer bad luck) that most of the others seem to have failed to pick up on that. He lets his eyes wander freely, and quite often he finds himself staring at the Inquisitor’s mouth. Full lips, a scar just glancing off one corner, curled in an almost constant frown – and that made it all the more interesting when the corners twitched, or the even more rare occasions where they stretched into an actual smile.

 

Bull wants to kiss those lips – and if Adaar’s up for it all the more besides – but for once he’s letting the Inquisitor call the shots without question. It’s not as though he’s missed Adaar looking his way – the man is skilled in many ways, but subtlety is not one of them – and he’s fine letting him take things at his own pace.

 

He catches the Inquisitor out of the corner of his eye, who looks away with impressive speed, and allows himself a smirk. (After all, he’s been allowing himself just about everything else.)

 

\---

 

Adaar likes it when Bull smirks.


	6. Apodyopis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Apodyopis - The act of mentally undressing someone.

Lavellan sees Dorian for the first time and finds himself ever so slightly overwhelmed. He’s been attracted to people before – and there’s certainly no shortage of beautiful people around Skyhold – but he doesn’t think he’s ever been so lost for words as a result of it. (And normally Lavellan likes speaking – it fills otherwise unpleasant silences, and he’d be lying if he said he didn’t enjoy the sound of his own voice.) As it stands he just stares transfixed at the man (a _shem_ , no less, a small, spiteful little part of him notes and he forces down the wave of guilt) for probably a moment or two too long before he realises he’s supposed to make some kind of response.

 

“Sorry, what?”

 

(He can almost feel the disappointment radiating off the two beside him.)

 

\---

 

Skyhold has many features that Lavellan adores – and would refuse to admit ever even using if his Keeper asked – and one of those is a huge bath, complete with various oils and soaps. It’s a distinctly Orlesian touch that some of the others tacitly disapprove of, but he’s sure he’s caught just about everyone emerging from there at one time or another. The bath itself is large enough to fit five people comfortably (fewer if one of those people was the Iron Bull), but things here are far less… _communal_ than they were ( _are_ ) among his clan, and so bathing is a distinctly private affair.

 

Unfortunately, that requires the user _actually locking the door_ , and not letting poor, unsuspecting elves walk in on them.

 

Dorian looks taken aback, but not embarrassed – though his brow does crinkle slightly when he realises his error. “My apologies, Inquisitor. I’ve been in here far too long as it is,” he says, and makes to leave the bath – at which point Lavellan makes a noise that isn’t quite a squawk but also isn’t a sound normally associated with people and averts his eyes while Dorian makes himself decent.

 

It’s too late, however. He’s already seen everything and memorised it the best he can, and is well aware those memories are going to make themselves known later that night, and even as he looks back at Dorian – wearing a loose tunic and trousers, clinging to him in places he failed to properly dry off – his mouth turns dry. It’s like their first meeting all over again.

 

Dorian gives him a look that’s equal parts suspicion and concern. “Are you feeling all right? You seem a little…”

 

“Fine!” Lavellan replies, a bit too quickly and far too loudly. “Just fine. Absolutely… fine. Yes.”

 

In spite of Lavellan’s admirable performance Dorian does not look convinced, but instead of protesting just quirks his head slightly. “If you’re quite sure.”

 

After he leaves Lavellan dips his hand into the water. It is, of course, at an ideal temperature – no mage in Skyhold (save perhaps for Solas) would settle for anything else – and it’s fragrant without being overwhelming. The water’s perfect, so it’s with a brief pang of regret that Lavellan casts an ice spell and brings it down to something far more bracing.

 

\---

 

“You’re staring again,” Sera points out helpfully, and Lavellan lets out an exaggerated groan, burying his face in the crook of one arm while leaving just enough of a gap to allow him to see where he’s going. Ahead, Dorian and Bull were talking animatedly about… something, and Lavellan is well aware just how deep he’s in when the flexing of the Iron Bull’s arm and back muscles does _nothing_ for him, too busy watching Dorian’s (far more covered) form.

 

“Make him _stop_ ,” he tells her, voice muffled. “I’m not sure what he’s doing but make him stop.”

 

“You could always bring someone else along, you know.”

 

He stares at her as if she’d suggested he saw off his own arm, and she shrugs.

 

“Or I could punch you every time I catch you looking?” she offers amiably, and _that_ might just work. Lavellan is a delicate creature ill-suited for this kind of adventuring (or at least he _was_ – he’s quite sure he’s hardened along the edges some since the Conclave), and enjoys not getting injured where possible.

 

“Do it,” he says.

 

By the time they get back to Skyhold that evening he has bruises running all along his left arm, and Sera is complaining that her knuckles are sore.

 

\---

 

“I used to stare at you all the time,” Lavellan says. He’s stretched out over his (and by this point it’d probably be fair to call it _their_ ) bed and pretending not to like it quite as much as he does. When they first came to Skyhold he’d refused to sleep on the thing – it was too soft, he’d said – and instead threw some blankets down on the floor and spread them into something resembling his usual bedroll. As the breach grew wider and they lost more and more people he found himself more and more drawn to the blasted thing, eventually conceding that he perhaps needed some more softness in his life. (He tries not to think about how difficult it will be to sleep on his bedroll again when he returns to his clan. As it stands, he tries to think little about his clan in general.)

 

Dorian pauses in his undressing, robes part way undone with a few fastenings still to go. “And now of course you have ceased doing so?” he asks lightly, teasing. “How cruel of you to say.”

 

Lavellan rolls his eyes. “Yes, I’m leaving you for greener pastures. Vivienne beckons to me.”

 

“Oh, please let me watch when you tell her so.”

 

“I can’t believe you’d take pleasure from watching me suffer like that. No wonder I’m leaving you for her.”

 

Dorian makes a brief noise of amusement before returning his attention to his robes. Lavellan knows from experience how fiddly those damned ties are, and had come up with some really quite creative curses before Dorian took pity on him and intervened. “I’m assuming you’re trying to make a point here. So, you used to stare at me?”

 

“All the time,” admits Lavellan, and he’s glad that the room is dim enough to hide the flush he can feel rising up, not helped by the fact that Dorian’s bare from the waist up. Nothing he hasn’t seen before, but he doesn’t think he’ll ever tire of looking. “And after I walked in on you in the bath… it was a trying time for everyone involved.”

 

(Some days, when he squints hard enough, he’s _sure_ he can still see faint marks along his left arm.)

 

“Well, I’m glad I was able to offer you some relief,” Dorian replies, stripped down to his small clothes and looking a little too pleased with himself. “And on that note…” He makes towards the bed, but stops when Lavellan raises a hand.

 

“Just a moment. Just let me…” The lone burning candle offers just enough warm glow to let him see Dorian, and his eyes drift up and down as he takes in sharp lines and curves, a scar across his hip, the elaborate design of his tattoo. Dorian takes this in his stride, waiting patiently until Lavellan breaks his gaze away with a weak smile. “All right.”

 

Dorian smirks, bends over in an exaggerated bow before climbing into bed beside him, warm and soft and pressed tight against Lavellan’s back. “I’m glad my efforts back in the bathing room didn’t go to waste. Any longer in there and I fear I may have passed out.”

 

Lavellan, already on the verge of falling asleep, freezes and then says in a low, careful voice, “What?”

 

“What?” Dorian echoes back, then wraps an arm around Lavellan’s waist. “Nothing. Good night.”

 

“You are a terrible person.”

 

“But as you’ve already noticed I’m also _very_ good looking.”

 

“Your one saving grace,” Lavellan agrees. He feels he could perhaps protest more, but it’s been a long day, and between his too soft bed and Dorian’s firm grasp around him the desire to let himself drift off is overwhelming. He does, however, manage to say, “Try not to take advantage of that.”

 

“I make no promises.”


	7. Duende

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Duende - Unusual power to attract or charm.

Adaar is quite used to people being intimidated by her – when you typically stand at least a head taller than the next tallest person in the room it’s something you need to become accustomed to – and quite often it works in her favour. Being able to scare someone into doing your bidding without lifting a finger or saying a word is a useful talent to have, by and large, and is especially useful when you’re not inclined towards violence or harsh words. (As such becoming a mercenary was a questionable career choice, but it wasn’t as though she was swimming in options to begin with.)

 

Unfortunately, having a menacing presence was less helpful when it came to socialising with others – or at least _others_ who weren’t also gnarled, scarred and burly vashoth. People had a tendency to clam up around her if they didn’t just give her a wide berth, and it was difficult keeping up a conversation when it was clear the other participant would rather be anywhere else.

 

That she is now apparently tasked with saving the world from utter chaos and destruction – which would probably at some point involve talking to someone important – was clearly the Maker’s idea of a joke.

 

Cassandra at least is a reassuring presence at her side (once she’d removed the sword pointed at Adaar’s neck), albeit one who spoke with harsher words than Adaar thought strictly necessary. Even so, she takes a sharp inhale of breath as Cassandra pushes the doors open and led her to meet her advisors.

 

She sees Josephine Montilyet, and releases the breath just as quickly.

 

 

\---

 

Josephine is sweet and graceful and clever, and if it wasn’t unbearably creepy (and if she didn’t have slightly more pressing matters to attend to) Adaar would happily listen to her speak all day long. Even more astonishingly Josephine seems to enjoy (or at least tolerate with good grace; Adaar has never been good at telling the difference) her company, happy to speak with her about both current affairs and things of little importance.

 

Adaar is smitten. Unfortunately, so seems to be the majority of Skyhold, from the servants to the soldiers, and while it is absolutely understandable it puts the likelihood of Adaar catching her fancy at somewhere around zero. Even accounting for Vashoth standards of beauty she’s not the most attractive option – her horns are completely disproportionate to the ridge of her brow, for one thing – and she’s well aware that humans tend to prefer their women daintier. (Also fewer horns.) And while a sparkling personality might help balance the odds in such matters, her own personality falls more into the category of ‘fumbling and awkward, but nice.’ Without trying to sell herself short, she’s also quite certain that ‘nice’ isn’t really sufficient.

 

“Can you teach me to be more like you?” she asks Vivienne one day. The two of them are surrounded by books – being able to read finally proving useful – and each has a cup of steaming tea in their hand. Vivienne holds hers daintily, little finger pointing slightly outwards, while Adaar is taking care not to snap the delicate handle between her fingers.

 

Vivienne raises an eyebrow. “Is there something wrong with being like yourself?”

 

Adaar tries to hide her embarrassed smile behind a sip of her drink. “It’s not always ideal.”

 

“Few things are,” Vivienne says, stirring at her tea with a tiny, silver spoon. It’s a bigger tell than Vivienne usually makes, and Adaar wishes (not for the first time) that she was better at reading them. “Which is why we have to make the best of them,” Adaar nods, “and destroy anyone who stands in our way. In whatever way suits best.”

 

At _that_ little addition Adaar has to blink. “I’m not sure that last part is applicable here.”

 

The corners of Vivienne’s mouth twitch. “Are you quite certain?”

 

Adaar thinks back to a soldier who in recent days has gotten a little _handsy_ , and her mouth tightens into a thin line. “Perhaps a little.”

 

With a slight tilt of her head (emphasised by the horns of her hat – and really, Adaar thinks it’s most unfair that a human can wear horns better than she can) Vivienne brings their cups together with a faint _clink_.

 

\---

 

She starts with flowers, left anonymously without a note to betray her handwriting – taking care to leave them well away from any burning candles after the first bunch nearly sets the war table on fire – though she requires some guidance at first in determining what is a flower and what is an attractive weed that will nevertheless bring someone with slightly more sensitive skin out in a rash. (Solas is surprisingly helpful in this, also pointing out leaves from which one can make tea and roots that she can use to treat ailments she’s never heard of but is now terrified she’s going to develop.)

 

Unfortunately she gets a little too eager in this, and a slightly frazzled and bewildered Josephine finds herself with more flowers than she knows what to do with, and a desperate shortage of vases to put them in before they can dry out. (The headband she fashions from some of them is unbelievably adorable, however, so Adaar can’t quite chalk that one up as a loss.)

 

She follows up with poems – copied out again by a scribe sworn to secrecy – and it’s here she discovers that she’s not particularly strong with the written word either. Dorian and Vivienne try to help – or maybe just come along to laugh at her efforts, she’s not quite sure which – and Sera makes suggestions for dirty limericks instead, and somehow between them they come out with something half decent that sounds sort of like her own words.

 

One day she comes across Josephine reading one of them, and the speed with which Josephine tucks it alongside her other sheets of vellum and asks, “Is there something I can help you with, Inquisitor?” with only a faint blush across her cheeks is impressive, to say the least.

 

It does, however, remind her that anonymity can only go so far, and so she enlists the help of the others once more.

 

\---

 

“Why is _everyone_ here?” she asks. She doesn’t really _do_ outraged, and can just about handle mildly peeved, so she doesn’t think that the people crowded around the bar don’t take her remark quite as seriously as she’d like.

 

“Not _everyone_ ,” Dorian points out – and, true, Cullen, Cassandra, Leliana and Cole were absent – but the fact remains that she is quite sure she hadn’t invited a significant portion of the Inquisition to help her out with her personal problems.

 

“Inquisitor, did you really think I’d miss out on something like this?” Varric asks, and he at least makes a fair point. Instead she gestures at Bull and Blackwall, already with full tankards in front of them.

 

“And you two?”

 

Blackwall smiles fondly. “I have known a few women in my time. I thought I might be able to help,” he says – and again, Adaar can give him that one. Her own experiences go as far as staring dreamily at various women and daydreaming about what it’d be like to hold their hand and run fingers through their hair. (For the record, she’s quite certain that Josephine’s hair must feel amazing.)

 

The Iron Bull gets as far as, “And I have _known_ —“ before Dorian has a hand over his mouth and Vivienne shuts him down with a quelling look.

 

“Solas?” Adaar asks, a little wearily.

 

“I think this could be fascinating,” Solas says brightly, and… she has no idea how to take that, so she instead just takes it in her stride.

 

Well. First things first. She leans across and snatches the tankard from Bull’s loose grip, downing the contents without pause before bringing it back down with a clatter. “Any suggestions?” she says.

 

\---

 

Here is how she expects things to go: she has a script in her head, practised for hours the night before until it managed not to sound rehearsed, she will say her piece and then Josephine will either return her feelings or (rather more likely) will let her down gently and with good grace, and Adaar can take her pining elsewhere.

 

Here is how it actually goes: she steps into the room, Josephine drops her board with a clatter and Adaar suddenly finds herself with an armful of Josephine. Who is kissing her.

 

It takes her a moment to remember to kiss back, and when Josephine pulls away again she can only manage to stammer out, “I… uh…”

 

“Leliana told me it was you who sent me those letters,” Josephine says, her voice a little breathy. “They were very sweet.”

 

“I had help,” Adaar admits immediately, because while this may be a very foolish thing to say it seems wrong to pretend otherwise, especially when Josephine seemed so taken by them. “Vivienne, and Dorian, and—“

 

“They were _very sweet_ ,” Josephine says again, more firmly, and Adaar can feel the heat rising somewhere along her collarbone.

 

A thought hits her. “I never mentioned anything to Leliana,” she says, and Josephine gives a warm laugh.

 

“She is our Spymaster. She’d be a poor one if she didn’t pick up on such things, wouldn’t she?”

 

“I suppose…” Adaar swallows down the lump building up in her throat. “Did you like the flowers?”

 

“They were lovely. _Numerous_ … but lovely.”

 

“And… none of them brought you out in a rash?”

 

Josephine laughs again, and Adaar wants to her that sound… for a long time, at least. “No, although I was quite popular with the bees for a while.”

 

“Good, that’s… good.” She swallows again, and _oh Maker_ , her palms are sweaty and that’s just going to make her next request all the more awkward. “Is it alright if I – may I hold your hand?”

 

Josephine offers it without hesitation. There’s a slight callus across her middle finger, the palm stained slightly with ink but otherwise soft and warm.

 

It’s exactly how Adaar imagined it, and it is perfect.


	8. 45 Sentences

Mistakes

A mistake before the breach could cost the Valo-Kas their pay – a mistake now could cost them everything.

 

Heartfelt

Adaar practices the words in her head a dozen times over, but the moment she sees Josephine her tongue grows heavy in her mouth and all she can manage is a raspy, “Hey there.”

 

Fading Away

He strikes an impressive figure even among their present company, but with each passing day he feels as though there’s less and less of him still standing beside them – he wonders if any of them have noticed.

 

Spirit

Lavellan used to treat them with cautious respect – now his dreams are filled with shadows and if anything gets too close he will not hesitate to strike.

 

Choose

Her path has been laid out ahead of her as long as she can remember, and the novelty of choice is almost overwhelming – then she faces the consequences of her decisions, and the novelty wears off fast.

 

Immortal

“We elves were once immortal,” he says, stopping short of ‘and you took that all away from us’, but in the face of Dorian’s polite disbelief he wishes he hadn’t.

 

Open Your Eyes

It’s one thing to hear about the plight of the city elves, and quite another to see it with one’s own eyes: in the awed glances from the servants and the clench of Sera’s fists.

 

Electrify

When they first kiss a _literal_ spark passes between them, and they both claim the other was wholly responsible.

 

Starlight

Neither of them are romantics and they get along all the better for it, but something about the night air and the dim illumination from the stars makes them huddle closer together – they’ll later blame it on the cold.

 

Sacrifice

Josephine sometimes catches Leliana with a sad, distant look in her eye, and it makes her all the more insistent when she tells ( _orders_ ) Adaar to come home safe – when their return takes longer than it should she can feel Leliana’s gaze upon her.

 

Honour

“It’s going to bite you in the arse one day,” Sera says, trying and failing to sound less concerned than she obviously is, and Lavellan’s pretty sure she isn’t wrong.

 

Bite

Later, after she’s caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror in the middle of getting dressed, she assumes that wasn’t _quite_ what Sera meant.

 

Commit

He’s too young and he gives his heart too easily, and he can feel it pounding as his chest as he says, “Dorian, may I have a word?”

 

Fake

Adaar isn’t sure if he feels like an impostor or just wishes he was, but either way sitting on the throne feels like a betrayal.

 

Tender

Josephine eases the burden of leadership with light touches and gentle words, and the understanding that sometimes the kindest thing she can do is take control.

 

Trouble

“It’ll be fun,” Sera says, and then next thing she knows they’re being chased through the undergrowth by a giant bent on seeking revenge, ending up back at camp covered in mud and bruises and scratches from branches they caught on the way, and all either of them can do is laugh.

 

Final

“Ready for the final push?” Bull asks him, and Adaar nods his head without hesitation – he’s going to see this through to the end, one way or another.

 

Waiting

“Stay put,” says Lavellan, and Sera grins and gives her a thumbs-up and pretends she’s not itching to follow because… that would be silly, wouldn’t it?

 

Awareness

Adaar can detect rustling from far away and catch glimpses of movement out the corner of her eye with ease, but apparently she can’t see what’s right in front of her until Josephine finally loses her patience and makes herself very, _very_ clear.

 

Turn Away

He rolls over in his bed (frame creaking threateningly as he does so), comforted by the knowledge that he has the Iron Bull at his back.

 

Searching

She’s absolutely _not_ looking for anyone – enough responsibility rests on her shoulders without even thinking about her personal affairs – but she finds Sera nevertheless.

 

Hands of Fate

_Hand_ of fate is more accurate, but Lavellan thinks that there may be something to it as Dorian inspects the fade scar with unconcealed curiosity written across his face, one finger tracing lightly around the edge.

 

Irresistible

“I’m amazed you held off this long,” Adaar deadpans, and doesn’t quite understand why Bull doesn’t even _humour_ him with a laugh.

 

Easy

“Come on, easy now,” someone says, their features hidden by dark patches across his vision and voice horribly distorted, and Lavellan doesn’t have patience for their words because right now simply _breathing_ is the hardest thing he’s ever done.

 

Breathing

He awakes feeling a lot better – not as though his ribs are about to cave in with each inhale, at the very least – and smiles apologetically at an uncharacteristically dishevelled-looking Dorian, because he’s reasonably sure he said something unpleasant about the man’s parentage before he passed out.

 

Stumble

Adaar’s normally at least fairly graceful on her feet, but looking at Josephine still catches her off guard from time to time – and usually at the _most_ inopportune time possible.

 

Fighting

It soon becomes apparent it’s something that invigorates them both; the sting of fresh cuts and bruises and knowing that they’ve survived yet another brush with death, and the grin they share at the end of each battle soon becomes Sera’s favourite part.

 

Closing In

There’s a storm on the horizon and it’s all Josephine can do to keep herself busy, but there’s little use for a diplomat when the time for talking has passed.

 

Involved

It is, of course, _Sera_ who sticks her admittedly cute nose in and asks what they are to each other, and Lavellan gets to stammer uncomfortably for a few moments before Dorian cuts in smoothly, his hand resting at the small of Lavellan’s back.

 

Destiny

Lavellan _does_ believe in destiny, and fate, and brave heroes who swoop in when the world is at its worst and save it from destruction – whether _she’s_ that hero is another matter entirely.

 

Sweet

Adaar is not a frivolous person, and, unlike Bull, is seldom prone to over-indulging (or even indulging in the first place), but even he has to admit the pastries Bull has come across are _amazing_.

 

Calling

Being a mercenary was never a particularly good fit for her, and in spite of everything it’s oddly reassuring to think that she (probably) couldn’t be any more ill-suited for her new position.

 

Nightmare

The Fade was never a safe place to begin with, and it’s becoming quickly apparent that all of the mages in Skyhold (all save Solas) are struggling to cope with its changing climate – while Vivienne shuts herself away and the (former) Circle mages huddle together for comfort, Dorian and Lavellan sit together and try to hold off on sleep for as long as possible.

 

Flat

She’s a little alarmed to be bowled over by a speeding Sera and lands in an undignified fashion with Sera on top of her – but she’s very quickly grateful when she sees the enormous boulder crashing against where she’d stood only moments before.

 

Superstar

“Somebody’s popular,” Bull says after an afternoon passing judgement that went _surprisingly well_ , and with only minimal screams of protest and while _no_ , Adaar wouldn’t go quite that far, it was comforting to think that maybe he isn’t doing such a terrible job after all.

 

Spider Web

A moment longer at this ball and she’s either going to snap at someone or burst into tears – the latter being sadly more likely – and it’s only Josephine (looking spectacular, even with most of her face hidden behind a mask) peering over at her from the corner that gives her the strength to spend even a moment longer in the company of these dreadful, venomous people.

 

Haunted

Lavellan knows the history of the Emerald Graves, but even if he didn’t he suspects he would have known something was amiss – there’s a stillness in the air in spite of the wildlife – and so he whispers an apology as they walk along the path, ignoring the odd looks sent his way by his travelling companions.

 

Rich

Commerce is far different here than it is among the People, and while Josephine takes care of most matters regarding money Lavellan has still been left with far more than she honestly knows what to do with – but when she approaches Sera about it she’s met with a roll of the eyes and “I can’t say I know the feeling.”

 

Everybody

They all think it, at one point or another – _it didn’t have to have been me._

 

Meant No Harm

He carries every mistake with him and doesn’t try to burden the others with excuses or blame – but sometimes it slips out in the middle of the night, even though he knows Bull is only pretending to be asleep.

 

Apple

When Josephine is busy with work she is _consumed_ by it, content to let other needs and desires fall to the wayside while she scribbles quill against vellum – but she always looks up gratefully when Adaar calls in on her, bearing a piece of fruit or a cup of tea, and is all the more grateful when Adaar doesn’t linger long but instead lets her get back to her work.

 

Darling

Dorian tries out a dozen different pet names without much success, and has resigned himself to never getting one in return until ‘ma vhenan’ slips out – and Lavellan is far too stubborn to take such things back.

 

Name

_Sera_ rolls off the tongue – and rolls off _her_ tongue often enough, in a variety of different ways, but she likes it best of all when she whispers _Sera_ in the middle of the night and _Sera_ rolls over and tells her to _go the fuck to sleep_.

 

Mountains

Skyhold is already situated high enough in the air, and by the time one reaches the battlements the air is thin and painfully cold, but it’s one of the Inquisitor’s favourite places – they can look out into the distance, and see a world worth saving.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Original prompts taken from [here](http://100-prompts.livejournal.com/692.html), Table C.


	9. Dancing Partners

**Josephine:** Josephine makes the first move, wandering away into the crowd with purposeful strides. When she returns the musicians are playing something livelier, more upbeat, and the party-goers who neglected to brush up on their footwork are stumbling over one another, and there's a sparkle in her eye as she takes the Inquisitor by the hand. She knows the steps inside and out, and leaves the Inquisitor no choice but to follow her lead.

 

**Cullen:** The Inquisitor catches him off-guard, and with a simple question and proffered hand leaves him the sort of stammering mess he thought he'd long since outgrown. He's grateful his soldiers aren't here, though he already knows that word of it is going to get back to them _somehow_. (Most of the Inquisition aren't known for their discretion.) He hesitates just a moment too long and the Inquisitor's hand draws back, a sheepish (disappointed?) look sent his way. It's a split second thing – Cullen stretches his own arm forward, and says in one breath, “If you'd do _me_ the honour?”

 

**Cassandra:** Her steps are halted, unsteady – a far cry from her usual stance on the battlefield, where every step is confident in the knowledge that her body will not lead her astray. Here she’s forced to recollect steps she’d wilfully forgotten, secure (or so she’d thought) in the knowledge that she’d never be forced to call upon them again. The Inquisitor is endlessly patient, however, taking every misstep in their stride – including those that will doubtlessly bring about bruises in the near future – and whispers in her ear, “Just five more minutes, and we can ditch this blighted affair.”

 

**Blackwall:** The Grey Wardens are not known for their skills in the ballroom – darkspawn not being much for parties – and many would gladly avoid every stepping foot in one. Blackwall does not count himself among them, and with some _acceptable_ ale down him (he’d turned down the wine; the servants had clearly done their best not to look scandalised) he hooks his arm through the Inquisitor’s and leads them both on a dance that is, if not graceful (or for that matter _rhythmic_ ), not at all lacking in enthusiasm.

 

**Solas:** Solas does not dance. He can see the appeal, and even smiles wanly at some of their own dancing away and ignoring the pointed looks sent in their direction, but really – he has spent enough time in his own company to know what he will and will not enjoy.

That the Inquisitor is _also_ standing to the side, watching the goings on with a slightly bemused expression on their face – that is simply an added bonus.

 

**Sera:** Rubbing shoulders with Orlesian nobles (and not even being allowed to pick their pockets while she’s at it) is not Sera’s idea of a good time. Irritating said nobles by having the sheer _gall_ to be an elf and not be waiting on them hand on foot slightly more so, but having the Inquisitor go off on one who didn’t speak quietly enough turns out to be _incredibly_ entertaining, especially when said noble offers a meek little, “Sorry,” and what can be seen of his face is turning an interesting shade of purple. She waves her hand loftily, says, “See that it doesn’t happen again,” and when his back is turned she and the Inquisitor share in a smirk.

 

**The Iron Bull:** Bull sticks out like a sore thumb and tries not to look like he’s enjoying it as much as he is. (Admittedly he isn’t trying very hard.) The music’s different to what he’s used to, the drink even more so (though he requested _the strongest they had_ and it seems that in that area at least Orlais isn’t fairing too badly), but there’s a steady beat and enough attractive bodies flitting around to keep him entertained. When the Inquisitor grabs his shoulder, says, “If you _even_ think about treading on my toes it’ll end badly for you,” and pulls him towards them he doesn’t bother with even a token protest.

 

**Dorian:** The ball is and isn’t like back home – though every day he hesitates a little more before referring to it as such – fewer spells meant to impress and strike fear in equal measure, of course, and the servants aren't nearly as browbeaten, whispering among one another when the opportunity arises, but the air of spitefulness and pettiness is quite familiar, as is the feeling that he doesn’t exactly belong. Then the Inquisitor appears, slipping an arm around his waist and murmuring, “Care to give them a show?” and _really_ , how else was he going to respond?


End file.
